


Wait. What?

by cathouse_mary



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M, Smooch, the kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-11
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is always a great deal of activity inside the good Doctor's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait. What?

Title: Wait. What?

Fandom + Characters/Pairing: Dr. Who series 5, Amy/11 vignette

Rating: PG13 for smoochyface and naughty thoughts.

Spoilers: For series 5, episodes 'A Time of Angels' and 'Flesh and Stone.'

  
  
Wait. What?   
  
“Amy, listen to me. I am nine-hundred and seven years old.” Gah. Her hands are everywhere! Suspenders - must remember to look up and thank the bloke who invented those or he’d be as naked as a frog and- hey! Not the bow tie, leave the tie alone! “Do you understand what that means?”

“It’s been a while?” Insouciant; if she were a painting she’d be the image of it.

“Ye-” Wait. Stop. “No. No. No. I’m nine-hundred and seven and look at me!” How many hands does she have anyway? Six? Eight? Where did they come from?  She only had the two before. He can’t keep track of them. Tie. Suspenders. Tie. He has to put his foot down and right now, before things get out of hand. “I don’t get older, I just change. You get older. I don’t. And this can’t ever work.”

“Oh, you are sweet, Doctor, but I really wasn’t suggesting anything quite so long-term.”

He gapes at her for a minute, trying to process what she said she said what and she’s on him and then she kisses him and time stops skips spins and everything is out of hand.

Being nine-hundred and seven years old in linear time (in reckoning age by nonlinear time he’d embarrassingly lost count of himself), it is not as if he’s never been kissed. He’s been kissed plenty, thank you, and kissed plenty because he believes in reciprocity and also in taking initiative but this is Amy. Little Amelia Pond. A little red-headed Celt who was not a bit afraid of a box that fell out of the sky and the man who fell out of the box and who spat out all kinds of food in her kitchen before settling on fish custard which was really quite brilliant but was afraid of the crack in her wall and remember to BREATHE, you gigantic idiot.

He didn’t mean to look up her nightie.

Did.

Didn’t.

A little.

Sort of.

Accidentally.

On purpose.

Shut up!

What does a Kissagrameuse do, anyway? She must have been very good at it. She is very good at it. Kissing.

She dressed as a nurse.

Or a policewoman.

She mentioned something about a French maid.

Nun?

Wow.

STOP THAT.

Nurse?

Yeah. Nurse.

Or not.

But she’s kissing him and his hands are on her waist and she’s warm and she’s as light as a feather with her one heartbeat as fast as a little bird’s against his chest. It fills in the space between the beating of his two, and she’s kissing him entirely too well and in earnest because she means to have him and it really has to stop.

Really.

His hands on her shoulders. Her lips parted. Amy, oh Amy. Want to kiss you forever which is a very long time in linear time, and maybe even loop back now and then to watch.

Stop it.

Right now.

No, no, NO!

You’re supposed to push her away, you... you up-the-nightie-peeper.

It’s a moment of weakness. Shameful weakness. He knows that after a near-death experience one’s body wants to celebrate being alive by doing the things that one can only do when alive. Drinking, dancing, singing, eating, and... congressing. Intercoursing. Whoopeeing. Amelia might have experienced it after Prisoner Zero, but certainly not this breathless, deep visceral thrill of not of mere survival, but BEING. They cheated far more than death on Alfava Metraxis, they cheated complete erasure, abnegation, un-existence - of course the whoopee-making biochemicals want to have the equivalent of Hogmanay and Guy Fawkes with a bit of Carnival in Rio thrown in just for the samba beat.

The next time he regenerates he’s coming back at the physical age he was in his first time here. Two hearts - maybe next time he regenerates he can try for two brains, that way one could be working when his frisky parts are hijacking what passes for his good sense. This youthful body has all manner of distractions and interference, biological imperatives that need to quit fighting him for use of the brain. He’s supposed to be a Time Lord, not a Time Lad.

It’s only a few seconds. It’s an eternity. It’s bliss. It’s torment. She’s alive and on fire and vivid and young, and she is all he wants. And he’s a old, old man, lonely, cynical and cold, warming himself with her flame and her youth. It’s everything he can manage to push her away.

“But you’re human!” And beautiful. “You’re Amy!” You were a little girl not more than a week ago. “You’re getting married in the morning-” 11:56PM, 25 June, 2010. The clock. The computer. 26 June, 2010. Wait. The wedding, the crack in the wall, the explosion that put the crack in her wall,  and in the the Byzantium. He stops her from closing in for the kill. “In. The. Morning.”

“Doctor?” For a moment, Amy’s eyes are wary; she knows his temper by now.

“It’s you. It’s all about you. E-everything. It’s about you.” In all the good ways and one very much not good way. The Big Boom is coming. Possibly within minutes.

“Hold that thought.” And there is the smouldering heat in her eyes, the way she swings around the bed and lounges across it. Cleopatra could not do it better. The Daughters of Men (and not a few of the Sons of Men) can and have tempted angels - maybe even the weeping kind - and he is no kind of angel at all.

Wait.

Stop.

End of the universe massive explosion about to obliterate all of space and time.

Right.

Idiot.

She’s still gorgeous.

“Amy Pond. Mad, impossible Amy Pond. I don’t know why, I’ve no idea, but quite possibly the single most important thing in the history of the universe is that I get you sorted out right now.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Can one be exasperated and aroused at the same time? Yes.

Not that kind of sorting out. Do not think of sorting her out. Get her out of here, out of this timespace. Get her to safety and then, once good sense is restored to both of them, have a reasoned and rational discussion of Why This Is A Bad Idea.

“Come on!” He yanks her off the bed, and with seconds ticking down in his head, drags her to the TARDIS. The universe ends in Amy’s time, the universe ends on this day with a bang that echoes across time and space and-

She twirls like a dancer around him, embracing him. “Doctor.” Her voice a lovely, husky invitation to Everything. No time. He pushes her into the TARDIS. Hurryhurry. Time is running out. 

 

 _**FIC: Wait. What? (DW )** _

 


End file.
